That was your question. And I didn't want to answer, because I think that was the moment I realized just how ill-suited we were. I knew an honest answer would inevitably tear you and I into the separate walks of life we were headed toward.
Me? Not a doer. More like, easily satisfied - to a fault. And I wish someone would have revealed that to me, at some point. At some point before I woke up to the terrible realization of what I had missed. I wish they would have grabbed both of my shoulders in their hands and shaken that satisfaction right out of me.
Not that I can justifiably blame anybody else. Even though I'd like to.
I never used to think I was a perfectionist. That never came up on the list of "Words I Would Use to Describe Myself." Not even once. But I'm coming to figure out that I am, although a peculiar breed.
When I consider doing, my mind immediately informs me of all the better doings other people have already done. And I think to myself, well, if I'm not the best, if it won't be perfect, if I can't make it just-so, then what is the point?
And that is the thought that has kept from from doing, that, as it seems, will be keeping me from it my whole existence.